


Magic Touch

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [3]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Healing, Tower Mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tower Mountain's premier dancer makes a disquieting discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Touch

**Author's Note:**

> My first published story for Tower Mountain helped set the tone for the Tower's dark Third Millennium.
> 
> Originally published in _Tales of the Tower #1_
> 
> Reprinted in _Yearnings III_ as Part I of "A Perilous Gift"

TWR 581

“I think we may have this dance ready by the end of the moon after all. The solo looked much better today. You are getting more extension into your leaps, Peysol—that’s good.”

“Maybe too much,” the wardrobe master said wryly. Mikail turned to look at his friend as they entered a small dressing alcove that opened off the main practice room. The blond elf was walking awkwardly, one hand pressed to the small of his back. “I think I may have pulled a muscle on that last one.”

Mikail clicked his tongue in consternation. “Let me see.” His fingers probed the offending spot. Peysol winced. The dancer shook his head. “Tension again, Peysol. I have warned you about that before. You have to loosen up, relax, let the dance flow—tch! A hot bath is what it needs, but perhaps a massage will do it some good. Lie down on the couch and I’ll give you one.”

The wardrobe master pulled off his tunic and stretched out on the low couch with his head on his folded arms. Mikail knelt beside him and began to massage his slim shoulders, gradually working his way downward. Soon Peysol was giving off little grunts and sighs of pleasure as his mentor’s sure fingers performed a skillful dance on his knotted back muscles, probing, prodding, kneading, so that the stiffness flowed out of them like water to be replaced by a warm glow.

“Ahhh,” Peysol sighed at last. “Not only are you the finest dancer in Tower Mountain, Mikail, you give the best backrubs as well. Mmmm.” His blue eyes closed. “You have a magic touch, my friend. I feel no pain at all now.” Mikail sat back on his heels with a skeptical snort. “No, really,” the wardrobe master insisted, rising from the couch and reaching for his tunic. “None whatever.” He twisted his upper body experimentally and smiled. “It must have been just the tension. You were right—I need to loosen up.”

“Well, make sure you take that hot bath anyway,” the dancer advised, rising and laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And no acrobatics for the next day or so. I don’t want you laid up for the next moon. I need you for that solo.”

“Don’t worry, Mikail, I feel fine,” Peysol laughed. “But I think I’ll take your advice about the bath. Are you coming?”

“In a little while. You go on—I’ll catch you up later.”

Mikail watched his friend leave with a puzzled frown. The wardrobe master walked easily, fluidly. There was no trace of pain in his movements now. But he _had_ pulled a muscle, and Mikail knew from painful experience that such injuries did not just vanish—

_Wait a moment. How did I_ know _he was injured?_ For he had known it as surely as if the injury had been his own, the moment he touched Peysol…

Touched? What had Peysol said about a magic touch?

The dancer’s blue eyes widened. Slowly his hands came up in front of his face. He stared at them as if they did not belong to him.

_I … a healer?_

His knees felt suddenly weak. He dropped down onto the couch, still staring at his hands. No, it was impossible. It couldn’t be—could it? His mind raced back over the turns. Certainly he had always been supremely aware of his own body, how it moved and functioned. At times he had fancied he felt a similar awareness of others’ bodies, especially when dancing in sending-rapport. But he had not considered this unusual. Surely a dancer must have this awareness in order to dance. It couldn’t all be learned…

_Perhaps that is why I find the dance such a natural form of expression, while others must be taught. Perhaps that is why I must spend endless sessions coaching my pupils in what to me is second nature. But how could I be a healer all this time and not know it?_

Yet late manifestation of a Talent was not unknown, especially in a sheltered environment like Tower Mountain. Here time was slowed, and the crises that might bring forth a hidden power were few. Under such conditions a Talent might lie dormant for eights-of-eights. It was not as if Mikail had no healers in his family.

His hands trembled as a chill swept through him. _If Tyaar finds out about this, I’m dead._

The only acknowledged healer in Tower Mountain now was its ruler: Tyaar, Lord of Tower Mountain and Redrock Valley, child of the High Ones, healer, antihealer, and Mikail’s blood uncle. Other elves had occasionally manifested the Talent over the turns, but all those who had done so were dead—or worse.

The dancer clenched his hands in his lap, thinking of Lady Tascha. She had been a healer second only to Tyaar. She had also been his uncle’s lifemate, who Recognized him and bore his child after all hope of renewal seemed lost. But their daughter had died in a tragic accident when she had seen only a few turns of the seasons. Mikail remembered only too well the mental scream that ripped through the Mountain that day, his aunt’s slender form bending over the small, broken body from which the life had fled far too quickly for her to catch. Was it that loss, that shattering grief, that sowed the seeds of madness? When Tascha fled the Mountain not long after, she was insane. Her lifemate’s spirit too had darkened, become twisted and cruel, jealous of its power. Since then, all other healers in the Tower had died. Most of the deaths seemed like accidents, but over the turns Mikail had become certain they were not. Lord Tyaar wanted no rivals for his power, and Tascha was only the first of his victims.

Mikail’s hands came up to cover his face. _Why now? Oh High Ones, why now? If I had known, if I’d had it back then, perhaps I could have done something, helped him, helped them… No one could have saved Wisprian, I know that even if Tyaar could never accept it, but…  
_

… _once there was a time I would have shouted this to the skies._ As far back as he could remember, Mikail had wished for one of the special Talents other Tower elves had: gliding, or healing, or rockshaping. Part of the reason for his singleminded pursuit of excellence in the dance was his need to compensate for this perceived inadequacy. Well, it seemed the High Ones had finally granted his wish. His hands fell into his lap and his mouth twisted wryly. “O mighty High Ones, your timing is atrocious,” he murmured.

But was it? The cool, rational part of his mind took over and began to consider the matter. Better, maybe, if he had never known his Talent. But if it had to manifest someday, perhaps later was better than sooner. A hundred healers could not have saved Wisprian. As for her parents, mind-healing was both difficult and dangerous. It was highly unlikely that his much younger Talent could have prevented what had happened those many turns ago. After that, as an acknowledged healer he would have been marked for death.

_Would you really kill me, Uncle?_ Mikail wondered wistfully. Lord Tyaar had been his second father after his own father was lost, before the founding of Tower Mountain. Later, the dancer had been proud to swear oath to his lord as one of Tyaar’s Declared. Though they had drifted apart over the turns, especially after Wisprian’s death, there was still a bond between them of loyalty and love. Yet Tyaar had loved Tascha too. If his uncle saw him as a threat, Mikail would not be spared. The most mercy he could expect was that Tyaar would see to it his death was quick and painless. Mikail shuddered. He sprang up and began to pace the small room, hands clasping his elbows. _He must never find out. I must keep it hidden. I must tell no one._

_No one? Not even Nalkor?_ he thought yearningly. His soulbrother, at least, could be trusted to keep his secret safe. Yet if by some chance Tyaar did discover Mikail’s secret, he would never forgive anyone else who had known it and kept it from him. Nalkor would die too—not quickly, not painlessly. Mikail found he could bear the thought of his own death far more easily than the thought of his soulbrother suffering on his account.

Mikail halted and stared at his hands again. Then he slowly brought them down to his sides. _No. No one must know. I must keep my power hidden and never, never use it._

_Can you do that, Mikail?_ Already he imagined he could feel his power burning inside of him, whispering to him as if it had a will of its own. _If someone were hurt, sick or injured, could you stand by, knowing you could ease their pain and refusing to do so?_

_I can. I must. I can help no one if I am dead. Thank the High Ones that sickness and injury occur so seldom in Tower Mountain. It will not be so difficult to keep the secret. I have lived without Talent for more than five eights-of-eights-of-eights. It should not be so hard to continue as I have been._

_I’d better watch those backrubs, though…_ He smiled involuntarily as Peysol’s compliment came back to him. Peysol! The wardrobe master would be wondering where he was, why he had not come to the bath chambers. He had better go now. A hot bath would be good for his own tension, he thought wryly. If only it could wash away the knowledge that had come to him this day.

The dancer pushed aside the curtain that screened the dressing alcove and started across the echoing space of the practice room beyond. His easy step betrayed nothing of his inward struggle. Yet he spared one last, yearning thought for his predicament.

_Oh High Ones, if you really are getting around to granting wishes now, I have another one. Grant that someday a time will come when I need no longer keep this power hidden. Grant that someday I may be all that I am without pretense. However long it takes…_

For time was something there was plenty of in Tower Mountain.


End file.
